Fear in a Handful of Dust
by eireomid
Summary: An unlikely band of miscreants travel together through the Mojave. Main cast all OCs. A different kind of Fallout fanfiction.
1. Prologue

**FEAR IN A HANDFUL OF DUST**

"A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust."  
>—Lord Byron<p>

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow  
>Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,<br>You cannot say, or guess, for you know only  
>A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,<br>And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,  
>And the dry stone no sound of water. Only<br>There us a shadow under this red rock  
>(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),<br>And I will show you something different from either  
>Your shadow at morning striding behind you<br>Or your shadow in the evening rising to meet you;  
>I will show you fear in a handful of dust."<br>—T. S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"

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><p><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Bloatfly and Mark are original characters of my own creation. Everything else goes to the creators of the Fallout series.

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><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

Alright, by means of introduction: I invite you to consider the many horrifically mutated creatures of the Mojave. Namely, the ones that will likely try to kill you. Whether you've seen them in person or only heard travelers' tales, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Now, I want you to pick the top three least threatening of these creatures. That's right, _least_ threatening. Got those in your head? Good.

If the bloatfly isn't one of them, you're a fucking idiot. Have you ever seen a bloatfly? Ever been up against a bloatfly? You got a decent pistol and decent aim, you can take that thing down with a couple bullets, and there ain't much out in the Mojave these days that'll go down that easy. Not that it's worth it: you run fast enough, the bloatfly will do minimal damage before giving up, and if you actually decide to waste the bullets you'll come away with some of the foulest meat available. If you can even call it meat. I've heard of a Bloatfly Slider recipe that's circulating through the wasteland, but I bet even that's barely edible.

Now imagine having a choice in being named after any one of the creatures out roaming in the wastes. You could take Deathclaw or Nightstalker. Maybe those names are a little over-the-top, but they're definitely formidable. Cazador's a pretty cool name, sounds a bit exotic. Hell, I'd even take Fire Gecko, even just plain Gecko if I had to. I guess the point is, if you had the choice, the last name you'd probably pick is Bloatfly.

Unfortunately, at the time, I didn't really have that choice.


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Jesus Christ_, I thought, mind racing in a wild rhythm, matching my heart but contrasting with the steady pummel of my soles against soil. _I've been pretty awesome at making new friends lately_.

Not that I knew what a Jesus Christ was. Just some pre-war term I picked up I guess. As far as I knew, it meant "Fuck."

I'd been fucking around at a campfire, trying to tan some gecko hide I'd just scored (little buggers were all over the fucking place), when I'd been interrupted by some assholes in blue. Weren't from any faction I could recognize, not that it mattered. I won't take crap from nobody, whether they're Raiders or Troopers. I dunno, apparently I was infringing on some sort of local territory of theirs, and to reassert themselves (probably to make up for some male-oriented insecurities if you catch my drift) they decided to try and push me around. Guess they didn't take kindly to my "attitude". And while I wasn't taking kindly to their jackassery, I wasn't born yesterday. Four against one, and they were pretty heavily armed. All of them were equipped with some sort of firearm, and then – and this is the part that made me the most nervous – several sticks of dynamite. I'm no novice when it comes to combat, but I'm not a freaking God. Dynamite's some serious shit, especially if you're standing still. So, you know what they say – fight or flight. And that's why I'm running.

I was hoping to lose them in some rocky outcropping, where, worst-case scenario, they'd actually have the ingenuity to split up and I'd just have to take them out one by one. I reasoned to myself that dynamite might not be so bad if it was only coming from one direction.

But no, as my luck had it, I stumbled out from the brush onto a highway. "For Christ's sake," I muttered under my breath, another Christ-related expletive that I also found synonymous with "Fuck." Up ahead, I thought I saw the shimmer of buildings, but I couldn't be sure. Running up the highway under fire was pretty risky. Wouldn't be so bad if I could dodge bullets, but I wasn't fucking superhuman, you know? And to make matters worse, I had a decent gun but no ammo, and what little armor I had was falling apart. That's why I was trying to tan some gecko hide – figured I could hock it for a couple more caps so I could buy some bullets.

But you know, I didn't have many choices here. I could rush into the brush on the other side, but there wasn't really anywhere to hide, and it was cut short by what looked like a freaking mountain range. So I took the highway, as crazy and stupid as it was. I hoped to reach those buildings up ahead, if they were really there and not just a trick of the light.

"Get back here!" one of the blue-clad assholes snarled.

"Quit running like a girl!"

_Oh yeah, real clever_. They were so lucky I wasn't in a position to shoot the crap out of them right now. And I was lucky that I was a pretty fast runner. I could hear bullets whizzing past me – too close for comfort – and could feel them ricocheting at my heels. The group of buildings, which looked like a town or maybe a ghost town, wasn't a couple hundred yards away when I felt it. An impact in my right shoulder that nearly sent me face-first in the dust. A bite as the bullet went through my shitty armor.

"Scoooore! I got 'er!"

"Nice shot!"

_Crap crap crap crap crap._ Pain. Pain was not good. I had to reach this fucking town and hide, even if all the buildings were full of Fire Geckos and Deathclaws and fucking Supermutants. At least that way there'd be something to go after these assholes if they went looking for me.

It was so close now. I cut a hard left, hoping to make it into town from the rear, where a smattering of buildings might hinder my pursuers.

They turned left with me, not stalled for a single second. "She's heading into town!" one of them shouted, insistent on stating the obvious. They were gaining on me, somehow. Their armor was heavier and they appeared to be carrying more gear, yet they were gaining on me. Maybe it was because I had been shot. Yeah. Brilliant. I was going to have to rely on luck again, which was always tricky because I wasn't particularly lucky. I tried reasoning to myself a second time. What's the worst that could happen? They could catch up to me in town (which was looking more and more civilized as I saw Bighorners grazing amongst crops) and beat the shit out of me (maybe kill me) before some townsfolk intervened. Or maybe they could beat the shit outta me and/or kill me while the townsfolk cowered inside. Yeah, awesome.

Right. Well, time to take that risk, because frankly, I was out of options. I ran along the side of a house and whirled quickly around the corner, arm stretched outwards. This is where luck came in, and worked in my favor for once. Right in front of me was a doorknob, and I had myself inside the house faster than you could believe. I somehow even managed to close the door quietly, hoping that I'd be able to trick my pursuers and keep them off my tail.

"Um, hello."

Right. House. People. Or, person, as the case seemed to be. In a stroke of brilliance, I pulled out my pistol and trained it on him. I pressed a single finger to my lips, warning him to be quiet. I ducked down behind some sort of dresser, trying to keep out of sight of the front door. Almost immediately after, a loud knocking ensued.

The boy peered at me quizzically for a moment, then answered it. "Hel-"

He was cut off by a burly voice growling, "Look, we're not gonna play any games here. There's been a troublemaker running around this town, and one of you's hiding her. Now if you don't tell us where she is, we're gonna be making some trouble of our own."

The boy's gaze not for a second wavered. "If you have any issues concerning some 'troublemaker'," he said, "then I would suggest taking it up with Trudy over in the saloon. If anyone's going to help you, then it would be her." Having said that, the boy shut the door in his face.

I smirked, which was my best attempt to hide a grin. After the asshole's swears had fully receded, I told him, "That was a pretty good job, kid."

He gave me that sideways look again. "Well no offense," he said, "but I just generally don't put up with threats from Powder Gangers. No one in this town does; they've been a real pain lately. Seems if you look at them the wrong way they're suddenly itching to start a brawl."

"Huh. Powder Gangers." I had heard of them, heard more than enough of them really, but I'd never seen one in person. So that's what they looked like. "So, uh...where are we, anyway?"

"I don't take kindly to strangers waving guns in my face either," he said stubbornly, face turning an interesting shade of red.

"It's not even loaded," I told him, aiming the gun at the ceiling and pulling the trigger, making it let out a disheartening click. "Besides, when you're in a bind and you don't have time to have a heart-to-heart, generally brute force is your next best option." I paused. "Not that I'm the sweet-talking type in the first place."

"Mm," the boy murmured.

"So you mind telling me where we are? Being chased through the desert by Powder Gangers doesn't exactly do miracles for my sense of direction."

"We're in Goodsprings."

"Goodsprings?" I echoed. "Where the hell's Goodsprings?"

"Just to the west of the Spring Mountains."

"Look, this area's not exactly rolling plains, ya dig? And mountain ranges don't exactly give me the specificity I'm looking for. Can we try this again?"

The boy let out a sigh.

"Some landmarks would be good," I added.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," he replied. "To be honest, Goodsprings isn't really near much of anything. Closest town's Sloan, to the east, but that's not really that close in relative terms. Don't know if you're familiar with the Yangtze Memorial, but that's just past the Goodsprings Cemetery up on the hill."

Great. I was basically in the middle of nowhere. I'm sure it was better than some other places I could've ended up in, "in the dust filled with bullets" being one of them, but it still wasn't my ideal. "Jesus Christ," I muttered under my breath.

The boy's face brightened. "Oh, so you know about the pre-war too?" he asked.

My brow furrowed. "What're you talking about?"

"Jesus Christ. He was a prominent religious figure in the pre-war era."

"Huh. And you know this how?"

"I like to consider myself a scholar of pre-war culture. I've been studying it for some time now." I'm pretty sure his chest puffed out a little.

"Some time? What are you, sixteen?"

"Uh...twenty actually. Well, next fall anyway."

"Listen here, kid. This is what I know about the pre-war: it was, then the war happened, and now it's not. Ya dig?"

The boy paused, staring at me intently. "Are you...bleeding? Into my wallpaper?"

"Oh." I jumped up with a start. Bad idea. The pain – which I'm guessing had receded when I was sitting still – seared back into my shoulder, and despite my utter humiliation I had to grit my teeth.

"Oh my—are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding into your wallpaper, what do you think?"

"Okay, okay, okay," the boy said, looking more nervous than I was, "what's hurt? What happened?"

"I was shot," I said shortly. "In the shoulder. By Powder Gangers."

He seemed to try and calculate something.

"With a gun."

He furrowed his brows and scoffed. "I _knew_ that," he said. "Look, unless you're going to continue to be snarky with me, I think I can help you. But you have to trust me."

I narrowed my eyes and studied him. To be honest, I really hadn't taken inventory of how he looked, simply managed to guess that he was male, and very young. It wasn't hard to see why. He had a very round, childish face and wide, watery blue eyes. Narrow wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and his body was pale and doughy from lack of exposure to the wastes. And here I was, supposed to trust him to know what he was doing.

But you know, there was also a bullet in my shoulder. I was pretty desperate, especially if those Powder Gangers were still sniffing around town looking for me.

"All right, come on," I said, half-wincing. "Do your worst."

The boy slid his hand beneath my elbow and escorted me into the next room, which contained an unbelievable amount of bookshelves, nearly full with books in varying stages of decay. Other assorted knickknacks perched here and there without real rhyme or reason. Against one wall was what looked like a workbench, littered with strange bits of useless-looking metal. But it was the sturdy wooden table in the center of the room that he led me to, his eyes nervous.

"I'm going to get you a pillow, as well as the things I'll need," he said. "But um, I'm going to need you to take off the armor...actually, if you just stripped down to your underthings it would be best." His face turned bright red again. "After that just get on the table face-down, and I'll take a whack at getting that bullet out of your shoulder." He stood there awkwardly for a moment, before I shot him a glare and he skittered from the room.

This was just great. I got rid of the Powder Gangers only to run into some kid who didn't even think he could patch me up but was going to try anyway. Awesome. If it wasn't for the fact that my shoulder hurt like hell and that those Powder Gangers were still out there somewhere, I would've just walked out. Not that I would've had much luck in finding a different doctor anyway.

I started taking off my tattered armor (which was really me just helping it fall apart) until I was in my underclothes, and managed to hoist myself on the table, even though it required effort from my shoulders.

At about that time the kid rushed back into the room, and even though I couldn't see I guessed that he'd brought whatever he needed with him, as I heard them clatter on the workbench when he presumably dumped them there.

"Do you still want that pillow?" he asked meekly.

"Oh yeah, sure," I fired back, getting more and more irritated each passing second. "Because while I'm laying here, bleeding out, my biggest concern is whether or not my head is comfy. Look, just get the fucking bullet out of my shoulder and I'll be happy, ya dig?"

The boy fell silent and shuffled over to the workbench, picking out his tools. When he came back, he said, "I'm doing you a favor, you know," his voice low. He paused before adding, "This wound is pretty ugly but I think it looks worse than it is."

I didn't say anything to this. Why did he have to be right? Why was he making me want to be nice to him when I really wanted to beat the shit outta him for being a smartass?

"Now hold on, this is gonna hurt."

I felt something invade my wound, tweezers probably; he was probing around to find and extract the bullet. On top of being painful, it also felt freaking weird.

"Your armor might not have protected you from the bullet entirely," the kid said, "but at least it kept it from going deep. This should be pretty easy to get out. You ready?"

I grunted in approval and gritted my teeth in preparation. I'm not gonna lie: I've experienced a lot of painful things, including a couple of broken bones, but I've never been shot, and therefore I've never had a bullet removed. You can think what you'd like about that.

In a single, quick movement the boy yanked his hand back. I felt something dislodge and with it came a painful sting. I let out a whimper before I could stop myself.

There was an audible clink as the kid dropped the bullet into a pan. "I'm going to administer a stimpak, and then stitch the wound shut to protect it from infection. Sorry I don't have anything around to use as an anesthetic – it probably would make all this less painful."

I wanted to tell him that I was less worried about pain and more worried about, you know, a bullet in my shoulder, but I kept my mouth shut. First off, I had started to feel pretty shaky since the bullet had been removed and I didn't want him to hear my voice waver, and also I figured that I hadn't really said anything helpful thus far anyway.

I stayed silent as I felt the pricks of the stimpak and the needle weaving through my skin, which wasn't nearly as painful as the bullet wound itself. It started to feel better after the stimpak, but it still throbbed with a dull ache.

"Alright, done with that. Just gonna clean off the blood with some water, apply a bandage, and you'll be good to go." His voice held both cheerfulness and relief. Hell, I knew I was pretty fucking cheerful that he seemed to have done something right.

He left the room again, returned, and as promised gently washed the area around the wound with a wet rag. After a quick bandaging job, he stepped back and said, "All done."

I pushed myself up off the table. He held out a hand to help me down, but I ignored it. My pride won over the pain.

"I think that you should wait a bit before running around and getting in fights with Powder Gangers again," he said with a nervous chuckle. "You need to give it some time to heal, or else the stitches will rip out of the wound."

"Look, kid." I had collected myself enough to mentally numb the pain. "I ain't got time to hang around, especially if this place is crawling with those Powder Gangers. It'll be hard enough getting out of this shit of a town as it is. I ain't one to prolong my welcome...especially since I wasn't exactly welcomed in the first place."

"Goodsprings isn't like that," the boy protested. "The people are nice here; they'll give you a place to hide for a bit if you need it."

"Let's see, how do I put this nicely? No."

Call me crazy, but the boy actually looked a little crestfallen. Didn't make any sense to me, considering I had let myself in his house, waved a gun in his face, bled on his wallpaper, and just generally been as rude as possible to him. I was thinking that this might be my cue to scram, when he decided to speak up again.

"Where are you planning on going?"

"'Scuse me?"

"You said you weren't going to stick around. You've got to have some idea of where you're headed."

I laughed. "I could tell you, but...then I'd have to kill you."

"Ha ha, real funny. Seriously."

"Look kid, if it matters to ya that much, I'm thinking east. Or south. Or maybe both. Don't really matter much to me."

"Where are you from?"

"Anyone ever told you thatcha ask too many questions?"

"Yes. Where are you from?"

He was determined, you had to admire that. Or not. Really he was just getting me kinda annoyed, but I just realized that I was half-naked and down on bullets. And pretty much anything else I needed to survive. He was the one holding all the cards here and he knew it. Snotty little punk.

I sighed. "I'm from up north."

His eyes brightened. "Are you from New Veg—?"

"Not exactly," I cut him off. "Look, can we just cut to the chase here? You and I both know I'm not in any condition to be headin' out, and unless you wanna hold me captive for some reason – which, I'm tellin' ya right now, is NOT a better option than leaving – you should just start telling me what you want from me."

He exhaled deeply, closed his eyes. Shit. He was gonna ask me something big. As long as it wasn't to take his scrawny virginity. I was nowhere near thinking that might be okay.

"Look, I've lived in Goodsprings my entire life," he said, his voice bordering on whiny. "I've seen the same people day in and day out, save for the wastelanders that drift in ever so often. And they've always told the craziest stories while sitting at the saloon, making the drifter's life seem romantic. So I was just thinking, since you're here, that maybe you could—"

"No." I had seen where this was going from a mile away.

"I didn't even—"

"No, I'm not taking you with me out into the wastes."

"Come on, please? I can make it worth your while, I promise!"

"Look," I told him, thinking of edging away and escaping any minute now. "From what I see in front of me, you look like you couldn't carry a bag of flour, nevermind enough supplies to get you by in the Mojave. I'm willing to bet you've never taken a step outside this town, that you don't know how to fire a gun, or even how to cook something over a campfire. Listen kid, I don't need to be dragging a hundred pounds of useless behind me through the desert, ya dig?"

"A hundred and twenty, actually," he said softly. He looked down towards the ground, and I thought that I had finally gotten to him. Just one more strike to seal the deal, and he'd forget all about trying to tag along with me.

"I wouldn't even do it if you _paid_ me."

He lifted his head, seemed to consider something. He got a funny little furrow in his brow. "I'll be right back," he said quickly, then rushed from the room.

"You're seriously not thinking of paying me, are you?" I called after him. There was no response, but it didn't really matter, as he was back in the room not a second later. He was clutching something in his hands.

"This," the boy said triumphantly, "is a Pip-Boy 3000. Vault-Tec gizmo. Was standard issue for any Vault-dweller in the Mojave area."

"I know what it is," I interrupted, making no effort to hide my disinterest.

"You do?" the boy seemed surprised; his face fell a little.

"I've seen one before."

"Well, do you know how it works?"

"Of course not," I scoffed. "I said I'd _seen_ one, not taken a fuckin' seminar. You draw things out too long – you gotta learn to get to the point. Not everyone's a patient country bumpkin."

He gave me this sidelong glance, almost like a puppy-dog face I guess, but a little less obnoxious. I almost felt sorry for the kid. He just wanted to start his life, but was afraid to do it alone – anyone could sympathize with that. But a quick breath and he was back on topic.

"Alright, well, first of all, it has a biometric seal on it, which basically means that it can only be used and removed by the wearer. This biological imprinting technology is also used to calculate different variables attributed to your overall health, such as limb damage, dehydration, sleep deprivation, and the severity of wounds. It also helps with keeping an inventory – using the weight and muscle mass of the user it can estimate exactly how much weight you can reasonably carry, as well as show you how much extra weight you have on your back at the moment. The Pip-Boy can also scan items you pick up, to determine the identity of said item, weight, condition, and any additional information. Let's see...there's also a map where you can insert and save the exact coordinates of locations, a databank specifically for saving any recordings of the holotapes you play or notes you come across or write yourself...as well as a radio, compass, clock, thermostat, and flashlight. I think that covers the basics." His words faded away into a pleased smile.

I raised a brow. "How do you know the thing even works?" I gestured to the seemingly lifeless device in the boy's hands. "Looks pretty dead to me."

"Well, first of all, of course I've tested it. Numerous times. Secondly, when I bought it off a roving trader it was practically scrap metal, and I had to build it more or less from scratch. It's not easy to get prints for a Pip-Boy, nevermind the correct parts. So let's just say, I made very sure that my financial and physical efforts were worth it." He paused, gazing at me intently. "If you take me into the wastes, this is yours, even if we decide to part ways. You could make more use of it than I ever could, I'm sure."

I matched his stare. "Look, it's a nice offer, but I'd probably do better hocking this thing for some caps so I can buy real supplies. If you're gonna bribe me, you gotta be more practical about it."

"I've got caps," he said, his voice breaking into desperation. "I can pay for whatever we need to start out, and you can keep the Pip-Boy like you said. That's the deal, no catch. I just need to get out of here."

I don't know if it was pity or what, but the kid was starting to get to me. I generally don't play too well with others, but I found myself racking my brain for advantages in bringing the kid along, other than the fact that he was going to provide me with supplies. Granted, this seemed reason enough to take up his offer and then abandon him somewhere if he seemed like too much of a hassle, but I didn't like the idea of leaving that big of a mess in my wake. However, there was one card that was playing in his favor: this kid had repaired a freaking Pip-Boy. Granted, I had only seen one in working condition once or twice, but I wasn't so ignorant that I didn't know if the kid was telling the truth that he wasn't anything short of a fucking genius. Even if he had lied about the thing, even if it didn't work, he seemed to know enough about it to be considered somewhat mechanically inclined. I'm not stupid – I can use my brains to get out of a situation if I have to – but I'll admit it's not my strongest point. I could kick some serious ass, but this kid could probably pick locks, hack terminals, repair weapons, and administer medicines with ease for how smart he was. Christ, he would probably do better with people too, what with that little-boy face of his.

"Alright, alright," I said finally. "You win. But don't get too excited – the second you start being a useless fleshbag of organs to me is the second I make you a useless fleshbag of organs for everyone, ya dig?" He nodded quickly, trying so very hard to hide the grin quivering on his lips.

He set the Pip-Boy down on the table I had just been laying on, and held out his hand. "The name's Mark," he said.

"Yeah. Pleasure," I murmured, giving it a firm shake.

"And your name is?"

I let out a bit of a sigh. "Bloatfly."


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

"Wait, what?" the kid – Mark – asked, puzzled.

"You heard me; the name's Bloatfly."

Mark's face twitched, like he couldn't decide what it was supposed to be doing. "Y-you're serious?" he asked meekly.

"No, asshole, I like to invent crazy names for myself for kicks," I snarled, rolling my eyes. "_Yes_, my name is Bloatfly. Can we move on now? I'm pretty tired of dwelling on useless information."

Mark's face stopped convulsing and started flushing instead. "That's, uh...that's an interesting name. How'd you come by it?"

A hand went to my temple involuntarily. I was wondering if bringing the kid along had been a bad idea after all - we hadn't even _left the goddamn house_ and I was already starting to regret this decision. "It's a long story," I told him, sighing once again. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye just to see another one of those earnest looks on his face, as if he was about to ask me to tell him anyway. "Besides," I added, not in the mood for storytime right now, "we've got things to do, caps to spend...you wanna hit that wasteland, right?"

Distraction had been an effective technique, in this case. His expression changed to that of someone barely containing his excitement. It suddenly occurred to me how easy this poor kid's face was to read.

"So where do we start?" he asked.

"First things first, you ain't gonna survive in the wastes wearing shit like that," I told him, gesturing to his finely pressed pre-war slacks and button-down shirt. "We gotta get you some sort of armor. We gotta get _me_ some sort of armor."

"Alright, yes, armor. That makes sense. And we'll need weapons too, right?"

I eyed him warily. "I dunno if I trust you with a weapon, but yeah. Which means we'll also need ammo."

"Let's see..." Mark said, his brows furrowing. "We'll have to bring food and water. And medical supplies, in case one of us gets hurt—"

"Hey, whoa whoa whoa," I said, cutting him off. "Look, it's nice that you're trying to help and all, but wasteland on a budget? That's my specialty. For now you can stick to mending bullet wounds. And finding me something to wear while we bargain for armor."

Mark heaved a sigh, muttered something that sounded like "I'll be right back," and did the saddest saunter I've ever seen out of the room. I doubted he appreciated being disrespected, but fuck what he did and didn't appreciate. He was a gangly, good-for-nothing kid with an oversized brain for all I cared, and as for uselessness I was a guilty-till-proven-innocent type. I was gonna have a hard enough time trying to teach him to take care of himself on the run, but a deal was a deal and I wasn't planning to stick around in Goodsprings.

Mark returned with a heap of material in his arms, to which I thought, _Jesus Christ he's given me wardrobe choices hasn't he_?

"Um, so, I wasn't sure what would fit you," he said nervously, "since I think you're a bit bigger than me. So I brought a few of my mother's dresses you can try on. But then - and forgive me if I'm being too presumptuous here - I thought you might not be, er, the 'dress type', so I have some of my father's things as well." He set everything down on the table.

Well hey now. So the kid wasn't completely inept at, you know, everything. I walked over to the clothing and picked out what I assumed to be his father's slacks and shirt. They were a little big on me, but with the addition of a belt and some boots I was ready to spend the next couple of minutes in them, at least till I got myself some decent armor.

"Oh, and I nearly forgot," Mark said, grabbing a hat off a coat stand. "I thought a wide-brimmed hat might be good in case those Powder Gangers are still around. It'll hide your face a little."

"Oh. Right. Good idea," I said, taking the hat and putting it on. I gave him a cheeky grin and held out my arms. "So how do I look?"

Mark smirked and tried to stifle a snicker. "You look like a man," he replied.

I lowered my arms and looked down. He had a point. I didn't have the most feminine figure, and the oversized clothes I wore - the _men's_ clothes, I might add - did a good job of hiding what little was there. Add the fact that my hair was pretty much just a layer of fuzz on my head and you had the perfect formula for a pretty manly-looking chick.

I shrugged. "It'll hide me from the 'Gangers even better," I told him. "They'll be looking for a girl, after all."

Mark gave a curt nod. I think he was relieved that I hadn't been offended. "The only person in town who'll have most of what you're looking for is Chet," he said. "There's other people we can go to if we want certain things, but I think the general store should be our first stop."

"Sounds like a plan," I told the kid. "But now it's my turn to ask a question."

Mark looked confused. "Uh...ask away."

"There's no way a kid like you's been taking care of himself," I told him. "Where are your folks?"

Mark's face turned bright red. "They're out," he said meekly. "They went with Sunny to go clear out some radscorpions that have been showing up near the cemetery."

"And let me guess...you're planning to skip town before they get back, right?"

"Erm...maybe."

"Alright. That's all I wanted to know. Let's go see this Chet person." I grabbed my pistol - my only personal belonging at this point, other than my underwear - walked to the front door, held it open. "Lead the way."

The two of us set off across town in silence. I used the opportunity to take a look around. It seemed pretty nice for a small town I guess, though I'd never been a small town kind of girl. That was probably due to the fact that, honestly, before Goodsprings I hadn't really _been_ to a small town before.

We stepped into the general store where we were greeted by the man I assumed was Chet. He was short, Latino.

"Well hey there, Mark," he said with a smile. "What brings you in today?" His eyes slid over to me. "And who's this?"

"This is a friend of mine," Mark replied. "We're gonna head out to the wastes today and we're looking to stock up on supplies."

"Well, well, well!" Chet said with a good-natured laugh. "Finally heading up to Vegas, are ya? Seems to be a rite of passage in these parts, practically. Been there a couple times myself actually. Just don't throw your caps around too much up there - you'll come home broker than when you left."

Mark gave a nervous chuckle. "I'll remember your advice if we head up that way," he said.

"Good, good. Now, what can I get you two?"

"Well, we're both going to need some armor," Mark told him.

"Leather, preferably," I added.

"Right, leather," Mark echoed. "And, erm..."

"A pistol," I said, taking over. "Any basic 9mm will do. Ammo for that, plus some 10mm rounds. Nothing fancy, just the standard. And two knives - the sharpest you've got."

Chet chuckled. "Well, Mark, you seem to have gotten someone who really knows what they're doing. Why don't you guys just pick out what you want? I'll ring you up when you're ready."

We wandered away from the counter, scanning the odd assortment of items in Chet's shop. "How many caps you got?" I asked, making sure to keep my voice low.

"What's it matter?" Mark mumbled back.

"Look, I told you my thing was wasteland survival on a budget, yeah? So I kinda gotta know what sort of budget I'm working with - how many caps you looted from your mama's panty drawer."

"I didn't steal them," Mark said firmly. "And you're working with precisely four hundred caps."

"Jesus Christ," I exhaled.

"Is that bad?"

"Bad?" I echoed. "That's fucking _loaded_. I've gotten by on _much_ less than that - as in, nothing."

"Well, that's good I guess. So what's our focus going to be?"

"Armor and weapons," I told him. "We get good armor and weapons, some other inexpensive items, and we're set for the Mojave."

"Really?" Mark asked, his tone a mixture of surprise and skepticism. "Won't we need food and water, and medical supplies?"

"Got it covered," I told him. "Seriously, don't worry - I know what I'm doing. My main concern here is that we don't get our asses kicked by the first thing we come across. Especially you."

We finally managed to come up with two sets of leather armor that didn't look like they were about to fall apart, and a 9mm that was in pretty good shape. They were joined by two knives that were sharp enough, I guess. Then, after some rummaging, we found a decent amount of ammo.

"Why are we getting more rounds for my gun than for yours?" Mark asked when he saw me counting them out.

"Two reasons," I told him. "One, your bullets are cheaper, and two, I actually know how to hit a target."

He said nothing after that.

"Alright, so we're good on the weaponry," I said. "Now, we just need..." and at this point, I spotted what I was looking for and held it aloft. "Well, duct tape. Miracle worker, that is. Matches...a skillet..." I counted off, grabbing the items as I went. "And now...salt. Two pounds should do."

"Salt..." Mark said, thinking. "Why didn't I think of it before? Salt and salt water could be used as an antiseptic."

"Mhm," I replied, pretty impressed. "Gargling salt water will help with a sore or dry throat, and most importantly you can use it to cure meat. And...there it is. Grab two bags of that, kid, and we'll be well on our way. And if this Chet asshole tries to charge more than four hundred caps for this shit, talk him down."

I think Chet might've heard that last bit as we approached the counter, because he had a bit of a scowl on his face.

"Three hundred and sixty-six caps," Chet said, after all of his calculations were made. I gave a nod to Mark - it was barely less than his four hundred, and if we were anywhere else in the Mojave I may have tried to barter (mostly threaten) for a better price. But this was out in the sticks, where merchants could charge whatever they wanted. From what Mark had told me, there wasn't really anyplace else we could get anything, unless we were lucky enough to happen upon a caravan. Coming from...somewhere. Mojave Outpost, maybe, though Jesus Christ knew how far away that was.

But I wasn't done quite yet. As Mark counted out the precious caps we were spending on this crap, I asked gruffly, "Noticed you didn't have any xander root around. Wouldn't happen to know where I could find it, would ya?"

"Hmm," Chet said, re-counting the caps Mark had given him. "Don't know anyone who might sell it but I've heard you can get some down by the schoolhouse. I'd just be careful if you're headed for it - supposed to be some nasty critters lodged up inside."

On our way out, Mark had questions. Predictably. "So we have armor and weapons and ammo now. But we can't exactly live off salt, Bloatfly. We need food, and water, and _real_ medical supplies."

"I'm aware of that."

"But we spent most of our caps alread-what are you doing?"

I had found the dumpster outside of Chet's store and was halfway inside, rummaging through the garbage. "Trying to find bottles," I grunted.

"What for?"

I stopped, gave him a pointed look. "Mark, you can stand around and ask questions, or you can get your ass in this dumpster and help me. Ya dig?"

Mark sighed, leaned over the side of the dumpster and started digging. "What kind of bottles are we looking for?"

"Any kind," I replied. "I don't care what was in it before, as long as you can find the lid or close it with a bottlecap."

In such a small town, I thought it'd be easy to find liquor bottles, at the very least. Didn't look like there was much to do around here other than drink all day long. And I guess finding liquor bottles wasn't all that hard really so much as finding something to keep them closed. But between Mark and myself, we were able to find two whiskey bottles with corks, six soda bottles, and three old Sunset Sarsparilla bottles. Eleven in total. Wasn't too bad, I guess. I could live with that.

"Now we gotta get our hands on that xander root," I said. "Let's head over to the schoolhouse."

"Are you going to give me any clue as to what you're trying to do here?" Mark asked.

"Mm...nope."

He gave a long sigh. "We're not going inside, are we?"

"Nah, I'd like to avoid that actually. Don't know what qualifies as a 'nasty critter' 'round here, but if you're gonna die, I'd prefer you do it outside of town. I'd rather not have an angry mob on my tail."

"Gee, thanks."

"Much obliged. That the schoolhouse up there?" I asked, gesturing towards the broken-down red building up ahead.

"Mhm," Mark replied, stopping in his tracks and shifting uncomfortably on his feet. "Do I-can I just wait here?"

"Pussy," was the only response I gave him.

Now just for the record, I found the xander root and pulled it out of the ground with ease. I did see a few Giant Mantises nearby, but bugs are fucking stupid. If you move quietly, they usually won't even know you're there. Granted, some are smarter than others, but Mantises aren't one of the bugs I'd say that about.

I went back to Mark, arms raised, holding up a couple of xander roots in each hand. "Look, not even a scratch," I told him. "Now we're gonna go back to your place for a bit, pack up, and get the fuck outta here."

Mark's only response was a grin, ear-to-ear.

The first thing he did when he got home was rush over to that big wooden table and grab the Pip-Boy I had left there earlier. "Time to try it on," he said with a grin.

Look, to be perfectly honest, the Pip-Boy seemed like the sweetest toy a wastelander such as myself could ask for, it really did, but keep this in mind: this thing was basically built by a teenage boy. A teenage boy who could, granted, extract bullets without killing someone, which was more than I could say for most older folks, but a teenage boy nonetheless. Can't blame my reluctance, right?

Before I could even express my hesitance, Mark rushed up with the Pip-Boy and slapped it on my left arm, activating the bio-whatever seal. I looked down at the screen, shocked speechless. "Loading..." was all it said for a few seconds, followed by "Scanning..." Maybe it was just me, but it felt like forever before the screen finally lit up. "OCTOBER 13, 2281" it said at the top, and just beneath it was "10:47 AM". Without even taking inventory of the other features on the display, I started fiddling with knobs and buttons and switches. "Sweet," I said, not bothering to disguise the fact that I was impressed. It had everything Mark said, and then some. I looked up to see Mark grinning at me, and I quickly cleared my throat and put the Pip-Boy back to sleep. "Looks like you did a decent job of putting it back together," I told him nonchalantly.

Wasn't much else to say about going back to Mark's place. I got out of his father's clothes and into my armor, and he changed as well. Found some old knapsacks and holsters that weren't being used (or so Mark said), filled them with our gear, and after grabbing a couple of "spare" bedrolls we were ready to go.

"Um...when am I actually gonna learn to use this gun?" Mark asked nervously, struggling to get it into the holster.

I snatched the gun and put it away for him. "On our travels," I told him. "The Mojave's a good teacher. Nothing encourages the grasp of skills necessary to survive than pure survival instinct."

"Survival instinct?" Mark gulped.

"Yeah. In layman's terms it's a fear of death, I suppose. Now are you ready to head out or what?"

Mark got that uncomfortable look on his face again and shifted on his feet.

I rolled my eyes. "What now?" I sighed.

"I just..." Mark began, heaving a sigh. "I dunno. I've been dreaming about this for a long time—"

"Kid, what is it I've been telling you this whole time?" I snapped, cutting him off. "If you've got something to say, then spit it out."

"I was just wondering if I could say goodbye!" Mark blurted, turning red soon thereafter.

My first thought was that this kid must've had some seriously efficient blood flow, with the ease and speed with which his face seemed to turn color. Then my brain processed what he had actually said, and after a second's delay I gave him a scowl. "Goodbye? To who? I thought you were trying to skip town before your parents came back."

"I know, I know," he wheedled. "But...I mean, there are other people. I'd just like to stop in at the saloon for a minute for a final farewell. Please?"

I wanted to tell him no, I did. And don't you for a second think that it was those big, blue puppy-dog eyes he was trying to give me again that made me think otherwise. All I did was let out a sigh before he slapped on a grin, grabbed me by the wrist, and started dragging me out of the house in the direction of the saloon. If he hadn't caught me by surprise, he definitely wouldn't have gotten me as far as the street, which was where I nearly snapped his scrawny wrist trying to free myself.

Mark pouted, rubbing his forearm. He looked at me with accusing eyes.

"Listen," I said. "Try to look at this from my point of view. Who's to say there aren't still some of those assholes in town looking for me? _You're_ the one who told them to try their luck at the saloon."

"Trudy would have run them off pretty quickly," Mark replied defensively. "Look, I'm about to leave everyone and everything that I know behind. Come on, surely you know what that's like."

"No, not really."

"Look, just...please. _Please_. I won't talk for the rest of the day if we go."

"That's actually a pretty tempting offer."

"Well, I promise that I'll hold up my end of the bargain. I swear on...whatever it is people swear on where you come from."

"We don't usually swear on things. We just do them." I cast him a sideways glance, and he was making that face again. "Jesus Christ, Mark," I told him. "Fine. We'll go, but you better – and I mean _better_ – start acting like less of a pain in the ass."

He grinned started taking off for the saloon.

"I mean it!"

I sauntered after the kid, who could run pretty fast for as weedy as he was. I quickened my pace to a jog, and I caught up with him just as he entered the saloon. He stopped short, and let his arms fall limply to his sides. I shouldered my way into the doorway, trying to figure out what was getting his panties in a bunch now.

Unfortunately, my reaction to the situation in front of me wasn't much better.

Weren't many people in the saloon – it was quiet except for the tinny drawl of a country singer on the jukebox. In fact, there was only one guy in my line of sight, and wouldn't you know it was one of those blue-clad Powder Ganger assholes. He stood over a pool table, though up until the moment I walked in it didn't look like he'd been doing much aside from messing with the cue. But that sonofabitch looked up, and as soon as his eyes met mine, I could tell that he _knew_. That motherfucker knew.

I was going to kill Mark for dragging me back in with these people.

The 'Ganger straightened up, still clutching the cue, and came around the pool table. "Hey Harley!" he shouted into the next room. "Guess who just dragged herself inna the saloon?"

Instinctively my muscles tensed, getting ready to draw my pistol or my knife at any moment. I didn't put my hand directly on either – no need to give them the idea that I had twitchy fingers – but I knew how to prepare myself for a quick draw.

There was a clatter in the next room over, and a second 'Ganger barged into the room, giving a wicked grin as he looked me over. "Well, well, well," he said, running his tongue over his teeth unsettlingly. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes, ya little cuntbag?" His eyes glistened drunkenly, but he knew well enough to keep his distance. "We been lookin' all over town for you, y'know."

Mark decided to pipe up from behind me. "A-are you sure she's the one you're looking for?"

"Shut it, boy!" Asshole number one said.

"Nah, nah, she is," added the second. He staggered a few steps forward. "Ain't no other woman of her color in this town."

Shit. I didn't think too much about appearance – I preferred practicality over style – but I felt like I should've known that my heritage would give me away. It wasn't just this town that lacked people of my color; it seemed like the entire freaking Mojave was short on darkies. Guess there weren't a whole lot of them around here during the pre-war era either.

"Didn't we shoot you?" The first guy spoke again. "Shouldn't you be dead?"

I swear, I could _feel_ Mark suppressing a proud grin without even turning around to see it. "I got better," I told them nonchalantly. They paused a moment, and their expressions changed to better communicate their lack of a sense of humor. All right, two could play that game. "So what is it you want?"

"You shot one of our guys," the asshole who had come in from the other room spat. In my head I was beginning to affectionately refer to him as "Fugly". The other one was "Curly".

"Yeah, so?" I knew who he was talking about. Some dumbass that came chasing after me when I strayed a little too close to his camp. And of course he had dynamite. I put a bullet (maybe two) into his leg just to keep him from chasing me any further. "I put a bullet in your guy, you put a bullet in me...deal looks pretty even from where I'm standing."

I guess at that point the barkeep decided to intervene, because a dark-haired woman with a shotgun stepped into the room, face furious.

"Why don't you gentlemen take this up outside?" she said, giving her gun a cock. "Or better yet, get the hell outta town. I gave you guys drinks, but that doesn't mean you're welcome here."

"Put a cork in it, Trudy," Curly hissed. "We'll get outta town if you'd like...after we deal with this bitch." He gestured at me with the pool cue.

Trudy's eyes turned to me, and they were hard. Didn't look like she was favoring me any more than the Powder Gangers did. Fuck Mark and his idealistic notions of hiding me here. And fuck the fact that he'd sent them to her to be dealt with. Neither of them were looking to have been brilliant plans.

Maybe it was the shotgun, or maybe it was just an opportunity presenting itself. But I saw Fugly's hand move to his holster, but by the time he grabbed his gun, mine was raised and pointed at him. I don't know if he even saw the bullet that buried itself in his brain.

A bang, then a dull thud. I felt Mark jump a little, and I trained my gun on Curly, who stood there holding his pool cue dumbly. "More where that came from," I warned him, and he dropped his makeshift weapon to the floor.

"I ain't wasting my time on a woman," he sputtered, heading towards the door. "I got bigger fish to fry." He shoved his way out of the saloon, and I put my pistol away.

Trudy shot me glare. Jesus, I just did her a favor by wasting that asshole, but all she seemed to have to say on the matter was, "Great. Now what am I supposed to do about this?"

"You've got a graveyard, right?" I countered. "Bury him. Burn him. Dump him in a ditch. Sacrifice him to geckos. You've got a variety of options at your disposal." I eyed the body on the floor before adding, "Throw some sawdust on the blood and it'll suck it right up – you won't have to worry about stains."

Trudy didn't seem all that pleased with my suggestions, because she kept boring holes in me with that glare of hers. She stalked back into the other room, where I heard her issuing orders to whoever was seated there, asking him to 'get a couple boys' to help remove the body from the saloon. She may have mentioned sawdust. I stepped forward from the doorway, careful not to tread upon the corpse, and turned towards Mark. "Hope this was the sort of goodbye you were expecting," I told him in a low voice.

He still seemed slightly slackjawed with shock, but he was able to shake it when Trudy called him from the bar. "Mark! Why don't you and your...'friend' come sit down?" I noticed her tone had grown considerably warmer since she had been speaking to me and the Powder Gangers.

We each grabbed ourselves a bit of the bar, and Trudy gave Mark a Sunset Sarsaparilla while I waved my hand to indicate that I didn't want anything (though I doubted she was going to offer me some anyway).

"I see you're all geared up there," she told Mark with a smile. "You finally going out on an adventure?"

"That's the plan!"

"You just have to be careful out there," she continued, casually ignoring my presence. I folded my arms across my chest. I didn't really much care how she treated me; I just wanted to get the hell out of here. "There are things a lot more dangerous than Powder Gangers out in the Mojave." She paused, and her mouth set into a grim line. "Maybe it's best you stay in Goodpsrings."

"I can take care of myself," Mark said with a smile. "Don't worry about me."

Trudy stared at him for a second before turning to me. "You better look after him," she said sternly.

"Look, if I got myself this far, I've got what it takes to look after some kid." I gave Mark a sidelong glance. "'Sides, this whole thing was his idea - so don't get your bloomers in a bunch."

This seemed satisfactory enough for the old bat, as she came out from behind the bar and threw her arms around Mark. "We'll miss you, sweetheart," she said. "Your folks aren't gonna be too happy to hear about this, but I know they'll understand. They were young and restless too, once." She drew back to smile at him before suffocating him with another embrace. "Oh, you just better write us when you get to New Vegas. Don't forget us if you hit the big time!"


End file.
